As big brothers go, I got one of the best. Ron is three and a half years older than I. He has always been someone I can look up to. (No, not because he is 6' 5".) Almost all the time he has had my back. Mom once told me she never had to worry about him until I came along and led him astray. She said he never even climbed trees until I was old enough and tried climbing every tree on the farm and got him to do the same. Luckily neither of us ever broke a bone falling out of them.
The American Theatre in Corning was operated by Mrs. Kuhl and her son, Dick. Saturday matinees were a dime; popcorn was a nickel. The selections were usually westerns or animal stories.
One Saturday afternoon when I was four Mom either let me go to the show with Ron or made him take me. She told him to sit with me near the back and not down front with all the other kids. I guess she was aware of how rowdy those down front kids got - throwing popcorn and punching arms.
The first two or three rows on the left as you went down the aisle were short rows of four seats each. Then the rows lengthened to either six or eight seats. We sat in the first long row and settled down to watch a movie about a boy and his dog. Everything was fine until well into the movie when the dog became lost. It went through some pretty harrowing experiences trying to get back to the boy. Finally it looked as though the dog was dead. I lost it; started crying and sobbing. Ron tried his best to console me, but I could not stop crying. He gave up in disgust (and embarrassment) and moved down the aisle several rows and left me crying.
There was a woman sitting behind us with her kids. She said "Come here." I went back to her. She took me on her lap, pressed my head against her shoulder and said over and over, "It's o.k. It's just a movie" until my sobs ceased. Of course it helped that about then the dog and boy were reunited.
Ron picked me up on his way out. As soon as we got to the car he told Mom, "I'm never taking her to the show again!"
He remained true to his promise until high school. I was a sophomore which means he had already graduated. I don't remember the movie but it was one I desperately wanted to see and since he was going anyway he agreed I could go along.
I met up with one of my classmates, Donna Perrin, and Sandy Wilkinson from Prescott. Par usual, after the show we went to the Candy Kitchen. Ron was ready to go home but I wasn't. Sandy had her car, so she said she would take me home. He left. We started scooping the loop.
Donna's brother and a couple cousins of mine were doing the same. They invited us to join them which we did. As soon as we got in their car they headed out of town and the tops began popping - they had beer. Prude that I was, I wanted to go back and have Sandy take me home. I knew driving and drinking did not mix and I wanted no part of it. They just laughed at me and said we'd go back soon.
We ended up going to Villisca where they bought more beer and drove all over the country until it was gone. My curfew time came and went. They finally took me home. Of course I wanted to try and sneak in the house. It was 2:00 a.m. Instead of leaving quietly, Don revved the engine and spun out of the driveway as noisily as he could.
The inquisition began as soon as I got into the house: "Where have you been?" "Who were you with?" "Do you know your brother is out looking for you?" "You're grounded for a month."
Not only was I in trouble, Ron was in trouble for not bringing me home with him. He did not get back until almost 4:00 a.m. - he had been driving all over looking for me. Once again my brother said, "I'm never taking her to the show again!" It was a promise he kept the second time.
I never knew who the lady was who consoled me. (I wish now I did.) There were many movies after that - especially scary ones like Psycho - when her mantra once again got me through: "It's only a movie. It's only a movie."
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Missouri Compromise
As you remember from your school days, the Missouri Compromise had to do with the number of slave states and free states admitted to the USA. (Simply put.)
My new definition of a Missouri Compromise - when two very stubborn people can't agree and one finally gives in.
We all make compromises every day. Any time more than one person is involved, there is going to be compromise. A successful marriage is supposed to be 50-50 when in reality I think one of the partners usually gives more than the other.
My Aunt Evelyn made me so mad 24 years ago. She attended an open house for us after Bud & I were married. As she left she said to me, "You'd better make this one work," referencing my two previous marriages and divorces. My immediate thought was that one person couldn't make a marriage work; it took both people trying.
I think what she had in mind was I should be willing to be more like brides of her time and before - willing to sacrifice; always deferring to the husband. Maybe she hadn't realized we'd had women's liberation!
The easiest compromising is when one person cares more about an outcome than the other. i.e. "What do you want to watch on t.v. tonight?" "I don't care, nothing sounds too good to me." "O.K. if we watch football then?" "Sure." (Of course tivoing has helped the 'what we are going to watch?' question.)
But what if you both have strong opposite opinions about something? i.e. "I want to go skiing in Colorado on vacation." "But I want to go on a Caribbean cruise." You either compromise or take separate vacations.
There have been disagreements in our years together; times we've both had to compromise. I have to admit it is generally Bud who gives in, not in a begrudging manner but in a gracious, generous way. That probably says a lot for why this third marriage of mine is working.
I like to think his good example has rubbed off on me a little bit.
My new definition of a Missouri Compromise - when two very stubborn people can't agree and one finally gives in.
We all make compromises every day. Any time more than one person is involved, there is going to be compromise. A successful marriage is supposed to be 50-50 when in reality I think one of the partners usually gives more than the other.
My Aunt Evelyn made me so mad 24 years ago. She attended an open house for us after Bud & I were married. As she left she said to me, "You'd better make this one work," referencing my two previous marriages and divorces. My immediate thought was that one person couldn't make a marriage work; it took both people trying.
I think what she had in mind was I should be willing to be more like brides of her time and before - willing to sacrifice; always deferring to the husband. Maybe she hadn't realized we'd had women's liberation!
The easiest compromising is when one person cares more about an outcome than the other. i.e. "What do you want to watch on t.v. tonight?" "I don't care, nothing sounds too good to me." "O.K. if we watch football then?" "Sure." (Of course tivoing has helped the 'what we are going to watch?' question.)
But what if you both have strong opposite opinions about something? i.e. "I want to go skiing in Colorado on vacation." "But I want to go on a Caribbean cruise." You either compromise or take separate vacations.
There have been disagreements in our years together; times we've both had to compromise. I have to admit it is generally Bud who gives in, not in a begrudging manner but in a gracious, generous way. That probably says a lot for why this third marriage of mine is working.
I like to think his good example has rubbed off on me a little bit.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Judgement Day
"There won't be any trumpets blowing come the judgement day, on the bloody morning after....one tin soldier rides away...."
It is human nature to pass judgement on others. Whether it is based upon social standing, color, nationality, or the shoes they wear, we all do it. Fifteen years ago I swore I would never judge another person by their looks.
That Friday morning in early July, 1994 was like any other at work for The Graham Group in Des Moines. The young assistant to the manager at Methodist Medical Plaza had brought down the time cards and we joked around as usual. But he went too far and said something that hurt my feelings before he left. Twenty minutes later my phone buzzed and the receptionist said I had a call on line two. I expected it to be him apologizing.
Instead it was my daughter-in-law; "Mom, you need to get up here to the hospital as fast as you can. They just brought Doug in. He has been electrocuted and they don't know if he is going to make it!" Thus began one of the worst weekends of my life.
I know I let out something between a scream and a groan as my co-workers quickly crowded into my cubicle to find out what happened and what they could do to help after I told them. I asked them to call Bud and tell him to meet me at Iowa Methodist. I knew I would need his support.
Doug held the certainty that he was going to die young because his father, Kenny, had died in June 1980 at age 37. As I rushed to the hospital I wondered if Doug had been right? He was almost 32. I also wondered if I was going to be like my parents and lose a child at an early age.
When I got to the emergency department I learned that Doug had been hooking roof trusses onto a crane at the job site when the boom came into contact with power lines. The electricity passed through his body and out his feet, blowing holes in the bottoms of both. It also stopped his heart. Two of his employees began CPR while another called 911.
At that time, Shelly was working at Iowa Methodist as an x-ray tech. She had been paged to the ER to do x-rays on an electrocution victim an ambulance was bringing in. The patient's clothes had all been cut off except his red briefs. There was a towel over his face. She saw Doug's tennis shoes on the bottom of the gurney; remembered that he had put on red underwear that morning and snatched the towel away to discover she had been paged to x-ray her own husband.
It is true the minutes passed as hours while emergency personnel worked to save my son's life and we huddled in a private waiting room. A hospital chaplain came in. A nurse came to tell me my boss was outside waiting to hear how things were going. I couldn't talk to anyone; I didn't know how things were going. Bud went out to talk to him.
Finally a nurse said I could see my son before they took him up to ICU. I was taken behind the curtains into a cubicle. My beloved first born lay unconscious on life support. All we could do was wait and pray. Only one person at a time could go in his room to see him for five minutes every other hour. On Saturday we were told they were keeping him in a medically induced coma. If they allowed him to come to wakefulness, he was combative - a sign of possible brain damage. Add that to the worry of whether or not he would live.
Sunday afternoon, the best of news - Doug had extubated himself. He was awake and talking. There were no immediate signs of brain damage. The next day he was moved to the burn unit to begin two weeks of recovery and skin grafting to cover the holes in his feet. He was in a wheel chair for awhile, then on crutches.
Doug has built many more houses since that awful time. Next month he will hold his new grandson at that same hospital. Grandpa Doug and great-grandma Ramona will have much to celebrate.
Oh, my vow not to judge people by their looks? Those two employees of his who saved my son's life were the most unlikely looking heros. They were kinda scruffy - types you would expect to see in a bar; certainly not guys you would pick to know CPR.
I have not been able to keep my vow; I still judge others. I just try harder not to.
It is human nature to pass judgement on others. Whether it is based upon social standing, color, nationality, or the shoes they wear, we all do it. Fifteen years ago I swore I would never judge another person by their looks.
That Friday morning in early July, 1994 was like any other at work for The Graham Group in Des Moines. The young assistant to the manager at Methodist Medical Plaza had brought down the time cards and we joked around as usual. But he went too far and said something that hurt my feelings before he left. Twenty minutes later my phone buzzed and the receptionist said I had a call on line two. I expected it to be him apologizing.
Instead it was my daughter-in-law; "Mom, you need to get up here to the hospital as fast as you can. They just brought Doug in. He has been electrocuted and they don't know if he is going to make it!" Thus began one of the worst weekends of my life.
I know I let out something between a scream and a groan as my co-workers quickly crowded into my cubicle to find out what happened and what they could do to help after I told them. I asked them to call Bud and tell him to meet me at Iowa Methodist. I knew I would need his support.
Doug held the certainty that he was going to die young because his father, Kenny, had died in June 1980 at age 37. As I rushed to the hospital I wondered if Doug had been right? He was almost 32. I also wondered if I was going to be like my parents and lose a child at an early age.
When I got to the emergency department I learned that Doug had been hooking roof trusses onto a crane at the job site when the boom came into contact with power lines. The electricity passed through his body and out his feet, blowing holes in the bottoms of both. It also stopped his heart. Two of his employees began CPR while another called 911.
At that time, Shelly was working at Iowa Methodist as an x-ray tech. She had been paged to the ER to do x-rays on an electrocution victim an ambulance was bringing in. The patient's clothes had all been cut off except his red briefs. There was a towel over his face. She saw Doug's tennis shoes on the bottom of the gurney; remembered that he had put on red underwear that morning and snatched the towel away to discover she had been paged to x-ray her own husband.
It is true the minutes passed as hours while emergency personnel worked to save my son's life and we huddled in a private waiting room. A hospital chaplain came in. A nurse came to tell me my boss was outside waiting to hear how things were going. I couldn't talk to anyone; I didn't know how things were going. Bud went out to talk to him.
Finally a nurse said I could see my son before they took him up to ICU. I was taken behind the curtains into a cubicle. My beloved first born lay unconscious on life support. All we could do was wait and pray. Only one person at a time could go in his room to see him for five minutes every other hour. On Saturday we were told they were keeping him in a medically induced coma. If they allowed him to come to wakefulness, he was combative - a sign of possible brain damage. Add that to the worry of whether or not he would live.
Sunday afternoon, the best of news - Doug had extubated himself. He was awake and talking. There were no immediate signs of brain damage. The next day he was moved to the burn unit to begin two weeks of recovery and skin grafting to cover the holes in his feet. He was in a wheel chair for awhile, then on crutches.
Doug has built many more houses since that awful time. Next month he will hold his new grandson at that same hospital. Grandpa Doug and great-grandma Ramona will have much to celebrate.
Oh, my vow not to judge people by their looks? Those two employees of his who saved my son's life were the most unlikely looking heros. They were kinda scruffy - types you would expect to see in a bar; certainly not guys you would pick to know CPR.
I have not been able to keep my vow; I still judge others. I just try harder not to.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sweet Sixteen......
....and never been kissed. I began high school in the fall of 1957 at age 13. High school was an overwhelming experience after eight years in a one room school. The girl who had been my best friend was a year ahead of me - a sophomore with a whole new set of friends. Some of the town kids were nice while others just made fun of us country bumpkins. The first day or two I discovered I had every class with another girl from the country, Ellen Sullivan. Fate threw us together and we have been friends ever since. Gradually my circle widened.
Mom & Dad had made it clear to Betty and me that we would not be allowed to date until we were 16. OK, so maybe I couldn't date them, but that did not stop me from having crushes on the boys in my classes; and thinking about them and talking about them and giggling about them and dreaming about them.
Finally the fall of my junior year began - the fall I turned 16. Now I could date! Problem was, no one asked me out. Then the break through, a senior boy (Marvin Lockwood) called me up and asked me out. Just my luck, I did not want to go out with him. I told him I would have to ask my parents and call him back. They told me I was old enough to make up my own mind. I told him they said 'no'.
The guy I was really interested in was a senior boy from Prescott High School. He had three older brothers and the four of them had been dating girls from Corning quite a while - long enough that they had "love 'em and leave 'em" reputations. Kenny was going steady with a girl in my sister's freshman class. Sandy was a friend of friends of mine who knew I wanted to go out with Kenny and had told her. One Monday morning we passed one another in the hallway and she said: "He's all yours. You can have him!"
It was a bit of a shock to hear they had broken up. It was a bigger problem to finagle a date with him since he didn't even know me. The campaign began the end of January. There was one place everyone went after the picture show on Saturday night -The Candy Kitchen. I was there with my girl friends, he was there with his brothers and their dates. No one actually introduced us, but I was pointed out to him so at least he knew what I looked like.
The middle of February after a basketball game a bunch of us were in the Candy Kitchen. After I left he asked my girlfriend, Donna Hall, why a nice girl like me would want to go out with a freak like him. (One of the advantages of moving last year was finding my diaries from my highschool days...my memory certainly isn't this good!) Donna said maybe I didn't think he was a freak to which he replied, "Does she need stronger glasses?"
Finally after a lot of tense moments and mixed signals Carma Neta Bennett (the girlfriend of Kenny's oldest brother, Ronnie) told me I had a date with Kenny the following Saturday night. It had been arranged as a 'blind' date. She said they would pick me between 7 & 7:30. When they still weren't there at 8:30, I just knew I had been stood up. Dad said even if they did show up that late I couldn't go out with him. At 5 til 9:00 they drove in.
March 5, 1960, my first date with Kenny Botkin. We went skating in Lenox then stopped at Stringtown for a coke before they took me home. We were in the back seat. He put his arm around me. I could tell he was going to try to kiss me but Mom had said I shouldn't let a boy kiss me on a first date so I turned away. We were almost home when he asked me for a date for the following Saturday night. I accepted. I think my curfew was 11:30. At 11:40 he walked me to the door and kissed me good night. Sweet 16 yrs, 3 mos and 16 days and I'd finally been kissed.
Mom & Dad had made it clear to Betty and me that we would not be allowed to date until we were 16. OK, so maybe I couldn't date them, but that did not stop me from having crushes on the boys in my classes; and thinking about them and talking about them and giggling about them and dreaming about them.
Finally the fall of my junior year began - the fall I turned 16. Now I could date! Problem was, no one asked me out. Then the break through, a senior boy (Marvin Lockwood) called me up and asked me out. Just my luck, I did not want to go out with him. I told him I would have to ask my parents and call him back. They told me I was old enough to make up my own mind. I told him they said 'no'.
The guy I was really interested in was a senior boy from Prescott High School. He had three older brothers and the four of them had been dating girls from Corning quite a while - long enough that they had "love 'em and leave 'em" reputations. Kenny was going steady with a girl in my sister's freshman class. Sandy was a friend of friends of mine who knew I wanted to go out with Kenny and had told her. One Monday morning we passed one another in the hallway and she said: "He's all yours. You can have him!"
It was a bit of a shock to hear they had broken up. It was a bigger problem to finagle a date with him since he didn't even know me. The campaign began the end of January. There was one place everyone went after the picture show on Saturday night -The Candy Kitchen. I was there with my girl friends, he was there with his brothers and their dates. No one actually introduced us, but I was pointed out to him so at least he knew what I looked like.
The middle of February after a basketball game a bunch of us were in the Candy Kitchen. After I left he asked my girlfriend, Donna Hall, why a nice girl like me would want to go out with a freak like him. (One of the advantages of moving last year was finding my diaries from my highschool days...my memory certainly isn't this good!) Donna said maybe I didn't think he was a freak to which he replied, "Does she need stronger glasses?"
Finally after a lot of tense moments and mixed signals Carma Neta Bennett (the girlfriend of Kenny's oldest brother, Ronnie) told me I had a date with Kenny the following Saturday night. It had been arranged as a 'blind' date. She said they would pick me between 7 & 7:30. When they still weren't there at 8:30, I just knew I had been stood up. Dad said even if they did show up that late I couldn't go out with him. At 5 til 9:00 they drove in.
March 5, 1960, my first date with Kenny Botkin. We went skating in Lenox then stopped at Stringtown for a coke before they took me home. We were in the back seat. He put his arm around me. I could tell he was going to try to kiss me but Mom had said I shouldn't let a boy kiss me on a first date so I turned away. We were almost home when he asked me for a date for the following Saturday night. I accepted. I think my curfew was 11:30. At 11:40 he walked me to the door and kissed me good night. Sweet 16 yrs, 3 mos and 16 days and I'd finally been kissed.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Sunday Morning Coming Down
"And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound, on the sleepin' city sidewalks: Sunday mornin' comin' down."
Kris Kristofferson has long been a favourite singer/songwriter/actor of mine. If there was one entertainer I could spend an hour with, it would be him. Though I would be too tongue-tied to talk to him, I would be enchanted just to listen to him talk. I seldom buy CD's anymore, but I just might have to have his new one "Closer To The Bone". (Yes, my birthday is coming up and so is xmas.)
I've had my share of Sunday morning coming downs. Sundays used to be very depressing days for me. I was never quite certain why; whether it was because I knew I had to go back to work the next day or because as Grandma Ridnour used to say, "I'm just a lazy sinner", or what? When the Des Moines Sunday Register still had some real content they published stories meant to be uplifting about people overcoming obstacles to do something meaningful with their lives. Instead of feeling uplifted, I always felt depressed because I was just plodding along doing nothing great.
Grandma R told me one time Sundays were her worst days, too. She said they were so lonesome. That was late in her life. Perhaps she was lamenting her younger years when some of her family members were there for dinner nearly every Sunday.
Her "lazy sinner" comment was one she made often also in her later years when she was unable to do much anymore. Her reply when asked "How do you feel?" was always, "With my fingers."
Sundays aren't as bad for me anymore. Maybe because I'm retired and don't have to go to work the next day. Or maybe because I have accepted that I'm never going to accomplish anything meaningful. Or maybe I believe as I told my son, Doug, this morning when he was talking about doing some of things he has always dreamed of: "It's never too late."
Kris Kristofferson has long been a favourite singer/songwriter/actor of mine. If there was one entertainer I could spend an hour with, it would be him. Though I would be too tongue-tied to talk to him, I would be enchanted just to listen to him talk. I seldom buy CD's anymore, but I just might have to have his new one "Closer To The Bone". (Yes, my birthday is coming up and so is xmas.)
I've had my share of Sunday morning coming downs. Sundays used to be very depressing days for me. I was never quite certain why; whether it was because I knew I had to go back to work the next day or because as Grandma Ridnour used to say, "I'm just a lazy sinner", or what? When the Des Moines Sunday Register still had some real content they published stories meant to be uplifting about people overcoming obstacles to do something meaningful with their lives. Instead of feeling uplifted, I always felt depressed because I was just plodding along doing nothing great.
Grandma R told me one time Sundays were her worst days, too. She said they were so lonesome. That was late in her life. Perhaps she was lamenting her younger years when some of her family members were there for dinner nearly every Sunday.
Her "lazy sinner" comment was one she made often also in her later years when she was unable to do much anymore. Her reply when asked "How do you feel?" was always, "With my fingers."
Sundays aren't as bad for me anymore. Maybe because I'm retired and don't have to go to work the next day. Or maybe because I have accepted that I'm never going to accomplish anything meaningful. Or maybe I believe as I told my son, Doug, this morning when he was talking about doing some of things he has always dreamed of: "It's never too late."
Saturday, October 3, 2009
"Smoke 'Em If You've Got 'Em"
Once in a while some people are surprised when the subject of smoking comes up and I say, "I used to smoke." It is the one vice I am most happy about no longer having. Mom thought I started smoking when I was a senior in high school because my friend Donna smoked as well as my boyfriend Kenny. In reality I did not start smoking until after graduation and it was my brother Ron who got me started. We were both working in town that summer. On the way home he started offering me a cigarette when he lit his. I think the brand was Viceroy.
Smoking was de rigueur then; almost everyone smoked and there were very few places you could not smoke. A pack of cigarettes was 40 cents but if you went to Missouri or Nebraska you could buy them cheaper.
The first time I quit smoking was when I was pregnant, not for the health of the baby - we didn't even think about that then - but because it made me nauseous. After Doug was born and I went back to work, I started smoking again - Kools that time. One day I was holding the baby and smoking when an ash fell on his little hand and burnt him slightly. I was so appalled at myself that I quit again for a short time. When I started smoking again, I switched to Salems.
I smoked until 1967 when I wanted to purchase "The Great Books of the Western World". I could make the monthly payments by using the money I saved on cigarettes. Over the years I started and stopped several times - again during two more pregnancies. It was only after Preston was born (#3) that I started smoking again specifically so I could lose those last 10 pounds. Those sexy Virginia Slims were just made for women like me.
I did not smoke those longer, thinner ciggies for more than a few packs, though, because they did not fit in my fancy green leather cigarette case with matching lighter. Proper accoutrements were all a part of the smoking mystique. Just the pop of opening the case and the snap of closing it and the click click of lighting the cigarette were part of the image I imagined for myself. A large ceramic ashtray and its matching lighter was the centerpiece on my coffee table.
When the stop smoking campaigns began in the 70's, Doug began his personal campaign to get me to quit smoking. Every time I lit a cigarette, he would tell me I needed to quit smoking; that it was bad for my health. His little sister and brother began the same pleadings. Then cigarettes went to 50 cents a pack and between the cost and the quit smoking campaign, I bought my last pack of cigarettes in January, 1973. One morning at work, I looked into the mirror above my desk and said, "That's it. I quit."
I bounced around the walls for about two weeks; was bitchier than usual, but I stuck it out cold turkey. I have never regretted giving up cigarettes. However, there was a time later on I wanted to smoke a pipe. I dated a pipe smoker off and on for five years. I loved the smell of his pipe smoke - a blend he bought special at David's Briar Shoppe. Luckily, I did not learn how to smoke a pipe.
To paraphrase the Virginia Slim ad: "I've come a long way, baby!"
Smoking was de rigueur then; almost everyone smoked and there were very few places you could not smoke. A pack of cigarettes was 40 cents but if you went to Missouri or Nebraska you could buy them cheaper.
The first time I quit smoking was when I was pregnant, not for the health of the baby - we didn't even think about that then - but because it made me nauseous. After Doug was born and I went back to work, I started smoking again - Kools that time. One day I was holding the baby and smoking when an ash fell on his little hand and burnt him slightly. I was so appalled at myself that I quit again for a short time. When I started smoking again, I switched to Salems.
I smoked until 1967 when I wanted to purchase "The Great Books of the Western World". I could make the monthly payments by using the money I saved on cigarettes. Over the years I started and stopped several times - again during two more pregnancies. It was only after Preston was born (#3) that I started smoking again specifically so I could lose those last 10 pounds. Those sexy Virginia Slims were just made for women like me.
I did not smoke those longer, thinner ciggies for more than a few packs, though, because they did not fit in my fancy green leather cigarette case with matching lighter. Proper accoutrements were all a part of the smoking mystique. Just the pop of opening the case and the snap of closing it and the click click of lighting the cigarette were part of the image I imagined for myself. A large ceramic ashtray and its matching lighter was the centerpiece on my coffee table.
When the stop smoking campaigns began in the 70's, Doug began his personal campaign to get me to quit smoking. Every time I lit a cigarette, he would tell me I needed to quit smoking; that it was bad for my health. His little sister and brother began the same pleadings. Then cigarettes went to 50 cents a pack and between the cost and the quit smoking campaign, I bought my last pack of cigarettes in January, 1973. One morning at work, I looked into the mirror above my desk and said, "That's it. I quit."
I bounced around the walls for about two weeks; was bitchier than usual, but I stuck it out cold turkey. I have never regretted giving up cigarettes. However, there was a time later on I wanted to smoke a pipe. I dated a pipe smoker off and on for five years. I loved the smell of his pipe smoke - a blend he bought special at David's Briar Shoppe. Luckily, I did not learn how to smoke a pipe.
To paraphrase the Virginia Slim ad: "I've come a long way, baby!"
Friday, October 2, 2009
Saturday Night Live
I'm guessing you can tell someone's age by what they think of when they hear 'Saturday Night Live'. Old ones are going to think of the good old days when Saturday night meant going to town; young ones will think of the tv show.
Saturday was the one evening a week that chores were done early. We HAD to get to town early so we could get a good parking spot along main street. Which meant we left home around 5:00 p.m. because we had to stop at the produce station to sell our cream and eggs before we drove up and down Davis Avenue looking for the most likely place to park. Seems like the preference was for the west side between 6th & 7th streets. On that side was Biggar's Dept. Store, the Dime Store, a shoe store, a women's dress & hat shop, a couple cafes and crossing 6th a grocery store.
Two distinct memories involving that stretch of sidewalk come to mind both involving my little sister. We were going to go into Gentle's Cafe but Betty (age 5) wanted to go on down the street to Daisy's Cafe for some reason. She started crying and screaming "I want to go to Daisy's"! Mom could not get her to shut up any other way so we went to Daisy's.
We were walking down that same sidewalk a few years later when Betty was hit from behind by a kid riding his bicycle down the sidewalk. It knocked her down skinned her knees and arms and hurt her leg. We were near Daisy's so Mom took her in there to clean the wounds. I don't remember if we even knew who the kid on the bicycle was, but I always think of it as being one of the Smart boys. There were four of them. They were always terrorizing other kids; real brats. There was some speculation a few years later when Betty had to have hip surgery that it might have been because of the bicycle accident.
Once their shopping was done, people stood around or sat in their cars (or on the fenders) and 'visited'. Mom rarely let us girls out of her sight but one night she allowed us to walk up and down with a girl we had just gotten acquainted with. We were supposed to only go up to the drugstore but as soon as we were safely out of sight, this 'town girl' led us on a merry chase. She knew the ins and outs of every store. She tooks us clear up to the third floor of Turner's where back in the back she knew there was a restroom. We had never been beyond the second floor before. We had been gone so long Mom began looking for us. She gave us such a bawling out and told us we could never have anything to do with Kathy Penn again. (Turns out Kathy and I were in the same h.s. class years later and got into mischief together more than once!)
The stores all stayed open until 10:00 p.m. There would be a last minute run at the grocery store to pick up the sacks with our name on them setting along the front wall. We would pull up outside and the grocery boys would bring out our bags. Sometimes Dad would go in and buy a half gallon of ice cream to eat as we watched 'Saturday Night Wrestling' when we got home.
Saturday nights in town were ruined sometime in the 60's when the city fathers decided to make Thursday night the night they stayed open late. It just wasn't the same. Saturday night live became Saturday night no longer.
Saturday was the one evening a week that chores were done early. We HAD to get to town early so we could get a good parking spot along main street. Which meant we left home around 5:00 p.m. because we had to stop at the produce station to sell our cream and eggs before we drove up and down Davis Avenue looking for the most likely place to park. Seems like the preference was for the west side between 6th & 7th streets. On that side was Biggar's Dept. Store, the Dime Store, a shoe store, a women's dress & hat shop, a couple cafes and crossing 6th a grocery store.
Two distinct memories involving that stretch of sidewalk come to mind both involving my little sister. We were going to go into Gentle's Cafe but Betty (age 5) wanted to go on down the street to Daisy's Cafe for some reason. She started crying and screaming "I want to go to Daisy's"! Mom could not get her to shut up any other way so we went to Daisy's.
We were walking down that same sidewalk a few years later when Betty was hit from behind by a kid riding his bicycle down the sidewalk. It knocked her down skinned her knees and arms and hurt her leg. We were near Daisy's so Mom took her in there to clean the wounds. I don't remember if we even knew who the kid on the bicycle was, but I always think of it as being one of the Smart boys. There were four of them. They were always terrorizing other kids; real brats. There was some speculation a few years later when Betty had to have hip surgery that it might have been because of the bicycle accident.
Once their shopping was done, people stood around or sat in their cars (or on the fenders) and 'visited'. Mom rarely let us girls out of her sight but one night she allowed us to walk up and down with a girl we had just gotten acquainted with. We were supposed to only go up to the drugstore but as soon as we were safely out of sight, this 'town girl' led us on a merry chase. She knew the ins and outs of every store. She tooks us clear up to the third floor of Turner's where back in the back she knew there was a restroom. We had never been beyond the second floor before. We had been gone so long Mom began looking for us. She gave us such a bawling out and told us we could never have anything to do with Kathy Penn again. (Turns out Kathy and I were in the same h.s. class years later and got into mischief together more than once!)
The stores all stayed open until 10:00 p.m. There would be a last minute run at the grocery store to pick up the sacks with our name on them setting along the front wall. We would pull up outside and the grocery boys would bring out our bags. Sometimes Dad would go in and buy a half gallon of ice cream to eat as we watched 'Saturday Night Wrestling' when we got home.
Saturday nights in town were ruined sometime in the 60's when the city fathers decided to make Thursday night the night they stayed open late. It just wasn't the same. Saturday night live became Saturday night no longer.
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